


Hale's Ales

by tryslora



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Beer, Homebrew, I Blame Tumblr, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-01
Updated: 2014-04-01
Packaged: 2018-01-17 18:44:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1398508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek doesn't want an assistant--he's fine being brewmaster for Hale's Ales all on his own--but Laura seems to think he needs one. Enter Stiles Stilinski...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hale's Ales

**Author's Note:**

> This was entirely inspired by [this post](http://mickeygallovich.tumblr.com/post/81275227506) on tumblr, and after saying "I don't have time for this" it wouldn't let me go. It's just a bit of pre-slash fun. And of course, I don't own the world or characters of Teen Wolf, I just like to play with them.

Derek hears the voices before his sister manages to make it into the back room. He turns, a scowl already twisting his features dark, a low sound in his throat when she stops in the doorway.

“And this is Derek, my brother and our brewmaster. Also, somewhat of an asshole,” she says, one hand gesturing fluidly through the air.

He expects to see a group behind her, but there is only one man standing with her. He’s just as tall as Derek but with a slightly narrower frame. Long, loose limbs, hands moving by his sides until he tucks long fingers into the edges of his pockets, energy transferring to have him rocking from heels to toes and back again as his head cranes, and he looks around the room. Tawny amber eyes are wide and alight with interest.

“I said no tours,” Derek grumbles, a ding bringing his attention back to his work. He turns his back on Laura and crouches down to pull the pan from the oven, turning over the grain on the pan carefully, checking to see just how darkly roasted it is. One more minute, maybe ninety seconds at the most. He’s at that critical moment where his grains could go from darkly roasted to burnt beyond recognition if his attention lapses. He puts it back in and sets a timer, refusing to look at them as it counts down.

“This isn’t a tour,” Laura says, voice even. “This is Mr. Stilinski. Your three o’clock interview.”

“It’s three-thirty,” Stilinski offers helpfully. “Laura thought that chances of you emerging from your brewing a new thing fugue before five or six were low, so she brought me back. You’ve got a great setup out there. Love the small batch setup, and I’m impressed by the larger setups, too. And the casks. Damn. I want to try the whiskey porter before I leave.” There’s a slight pause. “If you don’t mind. I mean, I’ll buy a bottle and take it home. I’m not expecting handouts, and I don’t drink on the job. I don’t want to give the wrong impression.”

Fifty-five seconds, Derek decides. No more, no less. Thirty changes to thirty-one and he never stops watching the clock. “I don’t have time for this right now. Get his resume and reschedule, Laura.”

“Not possible, brother of mine,” she says easily. “You’ve already put him off twice this week, and he’s leaving tomorrow to go home to California. You either talk to him now—”

Derek holds up one hand to let her know he’s stopped listening, then crouches to pull the grain quickly from the oven. He turns it over a few times, then spills it onto a second, chilled sheet so that it doesn’t keep roasting from its own residual heat. He twists the knob to turn the oven off as he feels someone come up behind him, a hand reaching past him.

Derek grabs his wrist before he can touch the grain. “Not without gloves or without me seeing you wash your hands.”

Stilinski doesn’t seem bothered by the manhandling, simply wiggling those strangely long fingers slightly. “Sink?” he asks, and when Derek points, he obediently washes up.

By the time he’s clean, Laura is gone, and Derek’s been left alone with a man he has no desire to interview or hire. He doesn’t _need_ help. Another person will only get in the way, bring in different techniques, _interfere_ with the way that Derek brews his beers. He has created the taste of Hale’s Ales from the ground up, working painstakingly on his recipes since he was a teenager and brewed his first batch by his father’s side. He doesn’t need some upstart with a chemistry degree telling him how he should brew, just because it’s chemically _right_. Derek knows how beer works better than anyone.

“So, what are we making?” Stilinski sifts through the grain, a faint frown marring his forehead as he looks at how dark the roast is. “You’re just on the edge of burnt here.”

“Caramelized,” Derek says curtly. “There’s a fine line, which is why I didn’t want to be interrupted. Fresh roasted is imperative to the flavor, and I need to get as much out of that grain as I can, or it’ll be tasteless piss.”

“This isn’t barley or wheat.”

“Buckwheat.”

“Bitter,” Stilinski counters.

“Dark,” Derek rebuts. “Slightly sweet from the sugar on the outside, coated before the roast.” He lifts one of the groats, holding it up to the light. “The brew will be over-hopped, aiming for a dark, dusky taste, similar to a stout but without a traditional gluten-based mash.”

“Gluten-free beer isn’t _beer_.” Stilinski’s nose wrinkles and he takes a step back.

Derek raises both eyebrows. “You’re not hired.”

“Wait.” Both hands come up, fingers spread. “Give me another chance and explain to me why the hell you’re fighting with something that tastes like piss no matter what.”

“Because there’s a demand and because I have a reputation.” It’s just that simple. People come to Hale’s Ales to eat and drink, and Derek doesn’t want to see anyone excluded. He makes the drinks, Cora designs the menu, and Laura talks to people and runs the business. “Everyone comes here, therefore everyone should get to have something.” He sifts through the grains, testing to see if they’re cool enough before he dumps them into his segregated gluten-free grain mill. “We already have one raspberry-lemon ale on the menu for our gluten free customers. We’ve had requests for a darker brew, so I’m testing and refining recipes.”

“How many attempts do you think it’ll take before you have something you like?” Stilinski moves to the bench where Derek has everything else for the mash laid out.

“This is my twenty-third attempt,” he admits. “I’ve had it too bitter, too sweet, and too bland… but nothing just right. This time I’m trying cracked cacao beans and coffee beans, along with the cane sugar coated roasted buckwheat groats and rice syrup. I’m adding a hint of ginger; I think the backbite will add character.”

Stilinski blinks. “That is definitely _not_ your typical beer.”

“Hale’s Ales never are.” Derek starts to put everything into a tumbler so that he can get his ingredients well-mixed before they go into the mesh bag that will boil for an hour. “Everything that can be is locally sourced, including the hops. We are unique, and we are a part of Seattle.”

“I’ve heard about you even in California.” Stilinski moves to lean back against a free workbench, his arms crossed as if to keep himself still, although his foot still taps lightly to an unheard rhythm. “That’s why I’m here. I’ve interviewed at two wineries and at Rook’s Brewery, but I didn’t want to leave before I had a chance to talk to you. And now you’re not impressed.”

“What are you?” Derek sets the tumbler in motion, the cracked grains noisy as they mix. “Twenty-two? Just out of school with a fresh chemistry degree and your only practical experience is making beer in your lab?”

“Twenty-five,” he counters. “And I’ve been making two batches a month for the last three years, giving away most of what I bottle, but I’ve entered a few competitions and come out in the top five. My cranberry wheat was mentioned in American Homebrew.”

“I’m thirty-two and I’ve been doing this for half my life,” Derek says, tone flat. “I started before we moved to Seattle, and I didn’t go to school for it. It’s just been me and the beer. We opened this place eight years ago, when Cora was just about to graduate high school. The only one of us with a degree is Laura, and that’s a business administration degree that she earned going part time, with most of the training being here on the job. This is my life.”

“I get that. And I want it to be my life, too.”

Stilinski is earnest, Derek has to give him that. With the wide Bambi eyes, he looks like this is everything he’s ever dreamed of. Except he’s still some college kid from down the coast, probably grew up surfing. Derek shakes his head. “You’re not right for the part.”

“Beacon Hills.”

Derek reaches out to touch the switch to the tumbler and everything goes silent. “What did you say?”

“I read,” Stilinski says. “You three left Beacon Hills after the fire. I was in middle school then, and my mom had just died, but my father knew your family. He said the best pint he’d ever had was at your barbecue the summer I was nine and your dad had just made a summer ale.”

“I made it.” Derek remembers that summer, and the barbecue his parents hosted for everyone in town. He and his father had been brewing, and the summer ale was one of Derek’s first that he felt confident enough to share. “That was my ale. And you’re the sheriff’s son.”

“Stiles.” Stilinski sticks out his hand, eyes crinkling at the corner as he grins.

“Derek.” He takes the offered hand, curls his fingers around it and grips tightly. He holds on for a beat too long, waiting until Stiles flushes slightly and pulls back. Derek releases him then and calmly turns away, beginning to spoon the grain into the bag.

“Well?”

“Open the fridge.” Derek jerks his shoulder towards the standing silver industrial refrigerator to one side of the room. “There are three bottles in there labeled SLR05. Take one out, pour a taster, and tell me two things. What’s in it, and what you’d do to make it better.”

By the time Stiles has poured a small amount into a glass, Derek has the bag set up and suspended in his brew pot, the flame going beneath it. There isn’t much left that he can do with it for the next hour, so he can put his entire focus on Stiles.

The other man picks up the glass, looks through the pale liquid: yellow with a hint of pink. He inhales it first, closing his eyes, then he takes a small sip. Stiles’s brow furrows and he takes another sip, then a longer one. “That’s actually really good. But it’s not beer,” he murmurs.

“What is it, then?” Derek waits patiently, trying not to stare at the way Stiles’s tongue flicks out, capturing drops from his lips.

“Not wheat. It has a mild flavor—it’s almost like a cider—but it’s not a wheat beer. I’m guessing this is your other gluten-free beer, because I’m tasting a hint of lemon and a lot of raspberry. Sorghum?”

Derek nods once, and Stiles smiles delightedly to have that right. “Go on,” Derek tells him.

“Too much raspberry.” Stiles takes another sip, holding it in his mouth while his eyes flutter closed again, expression lost in the taste. “And not enough lemon. It’s a little too sweet. I’d up the citric acid if you can, and change sweeteners. You used honey in this, and that’s not working with it. You need a cane sugar to balance out the lemon, but not too much or the raspberry starts to taste like cough syrup.” He glances over. “This isn’t the one you serve downstairs.”

Derek laughs sharply. “Of course not. That’s batch five. It took nineteen before I had it completely right, and you’re good. I didn’t think of adding citric acid directly, instead of just lemon, until almost the end. Turned out to be the key to the whole thing.”

Stiles puts the glass down, smirking. “Told you I’m good.”

“This isn’t going to be a fun job,” Derek says.

“Didn’t say I was looking for fun.”

“And I’m an asshole to work for. Just ask my sisters.”

“Don’t need to.” Stiles rolls his eyes. “They were happy to tell me that before I ever made it upstairs. Apparently they believe in fair warnings. Does that mean I’ve got the job?”

Derek turns away, cleaning up his work bench and making meticulous notes in the book that lies there. “It means get out of here, get back to Beacon Hills, and make your plans to move to Seattle. Because otherwise the commute is going to kill you.”

He barely has time to draw a breath before Stiles tackles him, hugging him hard. “You are _not_ going to regret this, dude.” The kiss, when it comes, is a wet splotch against his cheek before Stiles pulls away, still grinning.

“I already do,” Derek mutters.

“You love me, and you know it.” Stiles bounces a bit, turning as he looks around the room. “You know, I don’t leave until tomorrow. I could just get started right now. Read some of your lab books. Go over what you’ve done already. Catch me up, give me something to think about on the flight tomorrow. Then I’ll start for real on Monday, when I get back with my things.”

It’s almost too much, having this much energy in his own private, quiet space, and for a moment Derek regrets his hasty decision. Then he sees the look on Stiles’s face as he pages through the lab book on the bench, long fingers sliding over the pages as he absorbs the information, and he knows he has made the right decision. 

“Sure,” Derek says. “Let’s just go ahead and get started right now.”

**Author's Note:**

> The original ficlet response is on tumblr [here](http://tryslora.tumblr.com/post/81353105176/via-mickeygallovich-derek-hale-someone-write) and of course, you can [find me](http://tryslora.tumblr.com) on tumblr, too.


End file.
